Shatter Like Glass
by The Rebellious Observer
Summary: All Good Things Die. Hiead/Zero yaoi.
1. Musings of a Madman

Disclaimer: I don't own Megami Kouhosei, nor do I make any money off of it. I do own the plot (should one be forthcoming) and the story, however. Er…okay then. Please ask if you'd like to archive.

Reminder: This has Hiead/Zero SLASH. For those of you unused to fanon lingo, this means there's a homosexual relationship. There also happens to be a few scattered curse words. If any of the aforementioned story content offends you or makes you uncomfortable, please hit the back button now. =o)

I hear you breaking in the night. 

You shatter like glass when you close your eyes, and put yourself together again in the morning.

The cracks cannot be seen by day, for you hide them well. Sometimes I think you even forget they're there.

But in the night your defenses fall away, and there is nothing left except for vulnerability. 

It's always the same; your breathing grows ragged while you slumber, and you awake abruptly. 

You don't go back to sleep again. 

I should know; I stay awake with you, though you're oblivious to this.

And you're so incredibly oblivious about everything.

You can't even see that I--no, I'm not going to finish that train of thought.

It could have disastrous results.

I'll just think about other things.

Isn't that what you do?

I find myself suddenly eager to know.

I want to know so much about you, and I'm not even sure why. 

I don't _want_ to know why.

Do you face these same questions, I wonder?

Are these the things you ponder when you wake up wet from sweat and tears?

I can feel them, you know; the thoughts, the questions, the frightening answers, as they float by in the air. 

They briefly brush across my cheeks and hands and then fly off again as soon as you've beckoned.

Each stray thought is plucked randomly from the harshly sterilized air to be carefully considered and observed and then put back again, in favor of the next.

Do you do this nightly ceremony because you're afraid to go to back to sleep?

Maybe so. Or maybe I'm just overanalyzing things. 

It doesn't matter.

Nothing matters.

The only thing I have to concern myself with is my training. 

I _will_ be a Pilot.

Have no doubt about that, Zero Enna.

But you _are_ the competition…so my observations about you are alright. Beneficial, even.

'Know thine enemy' is that old Earth saying; though, in the long run, the enemy would be the Victim, right here, right now, it's you. 

I need to know you to defeat you.

That's why this obsession of mine is really a good thing. 

It helps me learn your fears, your weaknesses; any small tidbit of information can help shift the balance of power from you to me…and back again. 

I must be careful not to become too immersed in this nighttime ritual of ours (can I really call it that?); emotional dependency, especially on you, is a dangerous thing. 

But that would never happen to me. I haven't a heart to give away--nor one, for that matter, to break.

This keeps me somewhat secure, and I'm not sure whether I should be pleased or somewhat let down at the knowledge that this is all life has to offer me. 

Would reaching a decision somehow change anything? 

No. I thought not.

I might as well be indulgent and allow myself this brief time of contemplation on your life and character while I've got the chance.

I could be gone in a freak lunch accident tomorrow, after all. Or be brought down three years--hours--seconds--from this instant by a cruel twist of Fate. 

Of course it might very well be you who gets his pretty little head blown off by enemy fire, or some such nonsense, and then where would I be? 

I'd rather not guess; I like to think I've got the right to spare myself the woeful "what if" scenarios and other such sorrowful speculations. 

Honestly, Zero, sometimes I could swear you were the bane of my existence.

Other times I think that you're the only thing that keeps me from loosing the last few threads of sanity I have left.

But neither of these things are important, are they? 

What _is_ important is the undeniable fact that you fascinate me, lovely, foolish boy. 

You are my puzzle; my purpose; my paradox.

What is it that keeps you awake, 88?

Do your dreams haunt you, like mine do? 

Never mind. 

I don't care. 

I don't--the concept in itself is absolutely ridiculous.

I've never cared about anything before; why should I start now?

You and your fucking mind games.

Ironic, isn't it?

After all, I'm Hiead Gner, the coldest, meanest son-of-a-bitch on G.O.A, and you're the glorious Zero, the favored one, the guy who hasn't got a clue.

It should be me who's in control here.

I'm the one who's good at precisely and coolly detaching myself from a situation and thinking up the course of action that best suits my needs.

I should be your worst nightmare, and your greatest wish.

And yet…

…and yet you're the one getting under my skin, instead of the other way around.

I am your rival, as you are mine, but I seem to be suffering from some kind of warped sense of need for you, while you are afflicted with no such thing.

You're the cause of my prolonged mental suicide--but you didn't know that, did you?

The wake up call has sounded now, the shrill buzz an angry wake-up call for the room's only rested occupant, scholarly number 89. 

You painfully gather up the scattered pieces of yourself and put them back together; then you'll be off to brave another day, joyfully disregarding midnight's hauntings.

I would wonder why I always decide not to exploit you in those times you are most weakened, but I'm too busy strengthening my own ice facade to care (let's face it, dear, I'm much better at this game than you).

My barricades, unlike yours, have never broken; not even in the night.

My greatest fear is that, one day, they will.

But I will not dwell on this.

You walk past me and out the door; it's time to smile again, isn't it, Zero?

Yes, it is.

Good morning, my lovely, foolish boy.


	2. Hurt, Hate, and Alleluias

**Disclaimer**: Nope, don't I own Megami Kouhosei, nor do I make any money off of it. Believe me, you'd know if I did… =o)

**Author's Note**: #eyes bulge as she reads all the lovely reviews# Wow! Talk about a receptive audience, eh? I didn't think my little piece of work was anything much, but I posted it anyway, and, whoa, low and behold, you actually liked it! =o) Awesome! I'd like to thank the Academy--oops, wrong speech. What I _meant_ to say was: I'd like to thank Kaylee, Marie, Li Kayun, Wildfirefriendship, RcA, Kichigai, Sandy, Beck, Karyx, Dark Mousey, Jaden, Lilas, and Trial-By-Red-Eyes for their delightful and insightful feedback--so…thanks! #group hug# Okay then; I'd like to mention that I wrote this chapter rather hurriedly so I could get it out quickly, so there might be a few errors, etc. in the text. Feel free to point them out (I'll stop being so lazy and, at some time or another, sign in to correct them =o).  Read and Enjoy!

Sometimes I feel a prickling sensation creep over me. 

It dances across my shoulder blades and runs down my spine, and I feel a peculiar tingling sensation overtake my form.

It's the kind of feeling a person gets when he's being watched.

I find myself turning around, and always…always you are there.

Looking at me.

Staring at me.

Scaring the living daylights out of me.

I honestly don't know what to think.

What game are you playing, Hiead? 

Do you do it to make me fear you?

If so, then stop it; it's worked.

No one has ever disarmed me like this…so completely…

It's uncanny, really, the way you make my heart stop for one terrifying instant as your eyes bore a hole into my soul.

There's a searing heat in those wine-colored eyes, hidden just beneath a flimsy layer of calm, and it burns me, Hiead.

It burns me like a bath in molten lava might.

I melt away, but that's alright, because you make it so.

I don't make any sense at all, do I?

That's okay. It's only me in here, dwelling inside my head; the mind is the only real place of truth…or, more precisely, a person's own variations and perceptions of the truth as it appears to be.

Do you see what you're doing to me, Hiead?

Do you?

I'd never felt so very frightened yet elated all in the same instant until our gazes locked for the first time.

I wasn't sure if you wanted to kill me…or kiss me.

Sometimes I wonder which option I'd choose, if given a choice.

But one look at your face, your beautiful face, and I find that I already know the answer.

It's just too bad for me that you're the competition.

It's unfortunate that you also happen to be a boy.

But I've found that the greatest detrimental factor to changing our hostile relationship (is that what we have, Hiead; a relationship?) to something wonderful is the fact that you scare me senseless.

I think you'd gladly kill me just to see how long it takes… and you would, wouldn't you?

It seems I have a knack at making you simply stop trying to hold your rage at bay; I've unwittingly become, to you, a thing to hurt and hate.

Why is it that you only let your guard down the instant before you raise your fist to strike?

I think I may very well be the only person to have gotten such a peak inside your mind, and I'm probably the last as well.

That's somehow…empowering. Even flattering.

It's like a lover's gift, a metaphorical virginity of the soul, and it's mine, all mine…forever.

I'm the closest thing to a comrade…or something more…that you've got, and you don't like that, do you?

I have the control now, you see; you know that one day my tumultuous feelings toward you could change to simple apathy, and then you'd be all alone.

Not even you could bear that for long, Hiead.

I know I couldn't…

But perhaps I'm just being fanciful.

I like to think of you as being more fragile than you appear; it makes you seem more human, with human feelings and imperfections, like me.

It distances you from the silver boy, that sensuous creature with scorching orbs who'd gladly stab me in the back during my finest hour.

That really isn't you, is it, Hiead?

No--it couldn't be.

I don't believe that.

My…my mother…always chose to see the best in people, and that is what I shall do as well.

God, do I even have the right to act like her when I'm really so different, so undeserving of the affection that she gave me so freely?

I can't even remember her face, her voice, the words to the lullabies she used to sing to me at night when I was small and afraid of the dark…I'm forgetting the past that brought me here.

What is it about this place that makes everything else secondary and unimportant?

Why is it that with every new day we all seem to be less like ourselves and more like two-dimensional tools of war?

I try to remember a time before G.O.A--before training--before _you_--but it's so hard. 

It's so damn hard to remember my former home and life and neighbors; sometimes I think that it was all just a dream, a vague, dull hallucination, and I've really been in this place all my life, watching a planet twirl outside my window.

When I try to remember anything otherwise, I feel a dull throbbing in my head, and I get the distinct impression that those memories I've lost will never return.

This is a thing I do not welcome; I don't want the numbness of unfathomable space to gather me up and change me--manipulate me--into that unhappy warrior of Zion, the joyless defender; a person like you.

The more I mature, the more I realize that I don't like leaving the warmth of childhood--it was foolish and naïve of me to ever want to in the first place.

No one ever told me that adulthood would be so depressing.

And isn't that where I am, or at least where I'm going?

I feel colder already.

Is this how you feel, too?

Sometimes I ask myself that, but I cannot answer, and you would never tell me, anyway.

I hear the shrill wailing of the morning buzzer, and I know that it's time to bury all these thoughts of mine until tonight.

I'm not sure whether I should feel relieved or disgusted at the fact that I can't face these thoughts in the day as well.

Is it cowardice?

Perhaps. 

Probably.

It's just that I feel my thoughts might destroy me if I don't push them away…surely I'm entitled to some small bit of happiness, right?

And that's all I'm really looking for--all any of us are looking for.

That's why I used to frequent my colony's church so often after my now-faceless mother passed away; I wanted to understand and to accept and to be content, but I found none of these things there.

Still I hope that, some day, my peace of mind will come.

Maybe you aren't supposed to be happy until you die, could that be it?

Was Ernest at peace when he died?

Was he secure in the knowledge that he was doing an all-encompassing Good Deed, and did this please him?

I don't know.

I just don't know.

I glance up and there you are, looking at me as you don your uniform, but not really seeing me. You're just…there. Thinking? Plotting? Dreaming? I wish I knew.

Maybe--maybe one day, we could be happy together.

It'll probably never happen…but it's nice to fantasize about.

Hell, you're just plain nice to fantasize about, period…I think I may be blushing, so I turn away and finish dressing.

I walk into the corridor and try to push away my dark thoughts.

Yes, it is perhaps a despicable act of spinelessness, but I'll make up for that by being twice as good and brave as everyone else during practice.

I allow myself one last backward glance at you, and then a vivid remembrance is upon me of a stained-glass window from long ago, set high in the old church walls, whereby the Virgin Mother cried tears of blood for her dead son.

Yes, cry for us, Hiead. We need it.

Alleluia. 


	3. Sweat rolls down my face like the tears ...

Disclaimer: I don't own Megami Kouhosei, nor do I make any money off of it. The shrink and the plot (what plot?) are mine, though. Please inform me if you'd like to archive. =o)

Thanks to: Argent Inluminai, HikariTsuki, SilverShinigami, Kichigai, Marie, Karyx, Beck, RcA, and gundamesca for all their wonderful feedback/input/words of support and encouragement. You rule! =o)

Author's Note: Sorry I took so long--hopefully this chapter will make up for making you wait, ne? =o) Read and Enjoy.

Hiead's POV 

Those bastards.

Those fucking _bastards_!

How dare they do this to me?

Damn it, I'm on G.O.A to train, not to talk about my "feelings" or improve my tainted karma!

The things that go on in my head are none of their business.

I don't need a physiatrist, but here I am, sitting in a room with a blasted head-doctor scrutinizing me as if I were a particularly fascinating lab sample.

To her, I probably am. 

They interrupted my study time for this?

She scribbles notes on the pad perched on her lap, glancing up every so often. 

She's obviously waiting for me to speak first, but I won't give her that satisfaction.

A time passes with no sound at all, save for the faint scratching of pen on paper. 

How despicably old-fashioned.

Eventually she gives in, like I knew she would, and speaks first.

"It seems that this approach to our session isn't working very well, Mr. Gner," she sighs.

No shit; how long did it take you to figure that out, genius?

"So let's try something else, shall we?" she continues.

No, we shant.

"I'm going to hold up a card with an ink pattern, and you tell me what you think you see, alright?" she says, taking out a stack of large white cards and placing them facedown on her desk.

"Don't be afraid of answering incorrectly--there's no right or wrong answer," she explains, beaming now, as if she thinks she's somehow done something important.

I refrain from expressing my disgust.

"Here," she says, holding up the first card in the stack so that I can see the ink smudged on it.

Why not have some fun?

"I see you," I say flatly.

"You're sitting at your desk, crying."

She looks rather startled, but puts down the card and holds up the next.

"And here?" she asks.

"There's a man in the hallway. He's taking out his gun from beneath his coat, and smiling,"

My tone remains distant and uninterested, as if we are having a particularly lackluster conversation on warfare tactics of 17th century Earth.

She is upset, and I am gladdened. 

"And on this one?"

"He's creeping into the room, but you don't see him,"

This game is getting fun.

"What about this one?"

"His finger is on the trigger. You see him now; you're scared and screaming,"

She looks thoroughly stricken at this point.

"And now?"

I grin.

"Bam," I say.

A pregnant pause.

"You're dead."

I almost smile as I utter those last two words; this is just too easy.

She is flustered an uncomfortable, and stares at me as if I've just slapped her.

Maybe I have.

Then her expression changes, and I see realization has dawned.

This is all just a game.

"Well, enough of this, Mr. Gner," she says frigidly.

"Let's move on to something else."

She puts away her cards and leans back in her chair.

"Now we'll have an activity called word association," she says.

"I say a word, and you tell me the first word that you associate with it."

As if I didn't know that. 

Perhaps the name didn't give me a big enough clue?

We begin.

"Goodness."

"Impractical."

"Evilness." 

"Unreal."

"Cold."

"Everywhere."

"Hate."

Zero.

"Unavoidable."

She looks at me quizzically for a moment, but we quickly resume.

"Love."

Zero.

"Unattainable."

Another confused glance, that soon changes to speculative.

"Continue," I snap, irritated.

A half smile appears on her face.

Bitch.

No one can presume to know me--_no one_.

We continue this way for the remainder of the session, and then, finally, she has looked down at her wristwatch and said I may go.

I attempt to make a swift exit, but no sooner have I taken my first few steps than I am called back.

"Mr. Gner," she says.

I turn, irritated.

"One more thing."

I remain silent, head slightly tilted as I wait for her to continue so that I may finally be on my way.

"Desire," she says.

Zero.

"Frustration."

Then I am gone.

I slip away into the florescent hallways, immaculate and pristine (as always); my steps are swifter than usual.

I'm not running. 

I'm not. 

I wasn't summoned to that sorry misuse of time until after the day's instruction was done, thus I must hurry to my lodging before lights out.

My jaw tightens almost imperceptibly and my hands clench into fists as I lengthen my stride and scurry on to bed, as all good boys should.

I despise those who've oh-so-casually waved their magic wands of superiority to make me act like this--like some sort of creature of servitude--unimportant and helpless.   

Once I become a Goddess Pilot, things won't be this way. I will be powerful, more so than all the rest, like I was meant to be.

Anyone and everyone who stands in my way will be destroyed--I don't care how, I only know that I wish it so.

I will _make_ it so.

You just so happen to be one of those people, Zero. 

The doors slide open with a subdued hiss of greeting, and I step inside this humblest of quarters to the quiet slumber of 89 and a pair of ocean eyes, widened as they turn from the gentle whispering of pages from the book in your hands.

"Where were you?" you ask, interested.

I think I see a faint crease of worry furrow your smooth brow, but I'm probably just imagining that.

I level a cool glare your way and don't answer.

What's it to you, little Zero Enna?

I turn and grab my nightclothes in one smooth gesture, casually flinging them atop my bed as I unzip my uniform.

I haven't even gotten half out of the blasted scrap of leather before your fury propels you forward (like it always does) towards me.

A hand, warm and electrifying, grasps my bare shoulder and harshly turns me back around.

I feel my rage rising even as you open your mouth, but at the same time I am incredibly aware of just how careful I must be not to completely loose control.

If that were to happen, all my hard work would have been in vain; I'd be sent away.

After all, I don't think G.O.A takes kindly to pilots ravaging their comrades.

"Don't you have anything to say for yourself? You weren't in your designated area during study time. You had me--_us_; you had _us_ worried. Aren't you even going to say anything?" you ask, infuriated.

Yes.

"Let go of me," I say, looking pointedly at your hand where it now loosely clutches my arm.

The air between us is charged, and battle seems imminent.  

You surprise me, though; instead of charging forth, as I expected, you visibly choke back a snarled reply and stomp away to your pallet. 

Cracking already, are we, Zero?

How utterly pathetic.

Don't you know that weakness will kill you one of these days?

An impenetrable shield is the only true defense; don't you ever learn?

You've got to know these things, Zero.

We're in a war here--no one's got time to falter.

But I won't tell you this.

You won't let reality overtake you until it almost kills you in its relentless advance.

Sometimes the bitter truth will make you think it might be better to just stop fighting altogether and welcome the serenity of Death. 

How do I know this, sweet idiot? 

Because I lived it.

I still _am_ living it.

But I've got a goal, a reason, and I won't give way to silly notions. Not ever.

Even in death I will be great, falling in battle from enemy fire.

That's the plan, you see; to die nobly is to have lived nobly, and to have done that you must have been of great worth and thus great power.

All I have to do is wait for that day.

It's living that's hard to do, after all.

I will not die a coward's death--a weakling's way out.

I will not be like _him_, my wretched father; Mother has taught me too well for that.

The lights quickly snap off, and the room is immersed in darkness.

The only light comes from Zion.

I lie in my bed and wait for it…wait for it…and sure enough, your nightmare comes.

Your breath quickens and hitches, and bed sheets crumple to the floor.

No more, Zero.

No more of this.

I swiftly arise from my place on my bed and stride over to you.

I fully intend to reprimand you, but this sound plan is swiftly foiled as you toss around, lost to the Dreamworld.

Your nightclothes ride up and brush across your thighs in a soft caress; you fling one arm over your head like the proverbial damsel in distress, and I don't know what to think.

I want to pull those shining chocolate tresses of yours until you scream, and kiss those parted pink lips until you bleed, or suffocate, or both…but at the same time…I don't.

You look like a child, and yet…you don't.

It's perplexing to think that you can revert from a moron to an oxymoron and later go back once more, and not even realize it.

Does anyone know that, really, besides me?

No, I don't believe so.

That could mean that I'm insightful, or just mean that I'm more of a lunatic than anybody realizes.

A sudden urge overtakes me, and I follow it.

I slip in beside you and take you into my arms.

You relax, and go completely limp inside my hold, still a visitor of the place beyond life and before death.

I lightly press my lips onto your elegant neck and work my way, with small, barely-there kisses, up to your chin and, finally, to your mouth.

There all small vestiges of innocence fly away towards the stars; I plunder your mouth with my own, tasting your sweet depths, relishing in your pliant softness, and claiming it all as my own.

You're mine, Zero Enna.

Apparently your state of unconsciousness does not hinder your senses; you moan softly into my mouth.

Is this the same person that struts so confidently to practice and battles so fiercely in the Pro-Ings?

They think you're some kind of hero, some iron price of war, but you're not. Not really.

You're more like a butterfly--if I hold you in my hand, I can crush you.

Our legs tangle in some ironic semblance of intimacy, and I rest my cheek against your own, content, for now, to finally descend into sleep.

******************************************************

Hiead's POV 

The morning buzzer sounds, as it always does, to shock the ship's inhabitants awake.

I am already alert and dressed, walking out the door as my roommates drag themselves up to face the day.

I choke down my "breakfast" and linger in the Dining Hall until I see you come in, flanked by the remaining three members of our training squadron. 

You look well rested, for once, and you go about your daily routine with renewed vigor.

You don't even know what I--_we_ did last night, do you?

You crack a joke that has the rest of our training group in stitches with laughter.

No, I didn't think so.

You were asleep, so of course you wouldn't, but I still feel that you should be in some way grateful to me for giving you a night of relative tranquility.

But you're not; bastard.

Then it's time to go; in practice I dedicate myself more than usual to defeating, upstaging, and overall embarrassing you as much as I can.

I run, jump, fight, and memorize to my utmost capacity, and by the time lunchtime has come we are both spent and exhausted (in all possible meanings of the word) from trying so hard to outdo one another.

While the others exit the exercise room to eat their meals, we remain, each breathing frantically and perspiring wildly from the strain of physical competition, though we pretend that we're not.

We sit in silence.

Sweat rolls down my face like the tears I never shed.


	4. Symphony of Silence (aka The Dead and Th...

**Disclaimer**: Did you notice that time in Megami Kouhosei when Hiead and Zero made out passionately for a while and then did "forbidden things"? No? I didn't think so. And you know why you didn't see that? Because I don't own Megami Kouhosei. I sure as hell don't make any money off of it, either. I think it's safe to say that until you turn on your television and are shocked to find our two favorite boys bumping and grinding (ha! Sorry, I had to fit that phrase in here _somewhere_), then the previous proclamation still stands. I do own any and all original characters in this story as well as the plot (yes, plot; pariah_chesiretiger says there is one! =o); please inform me if you'd like to archive my work. =o)

**Thanks to** the following for their delightful feedback (my, you all must be just incredibly nice or very easily entertained, ne?): Kichigai, Argent Inluminai, gundamesca, RcA, Jaden, SilverShinigami, 01, Chevira Lowe, and pariah_chesiretiger. Thank you! =o) (Oh, and, as a side note to pariah_chersiretiger, I _do_ plan on continuing Prophecy of the Mage as soon as I get over my big, bad writers block where it's concerned (I know what I want in the long-run, but, oh, how to get there? =o); hopefully, the next chapter should be out soon (sorry for making you and the other readers of that story wait!)) __

**Author's Note**: I've gotten a few inquiries as to how long this fic is going to turn out to be, so I'll do my best to answer them now; I'm not really sure how long this story will end up being. I'm writing it from chapter to chapter, whenever inspiration strikes, so until the time comes when I mention that the end is drawing nearer, just assume that it'll keep on going. Also, I want to say sorry if it seems that Zero is a bit too religious in this fic--it's my understanding that he was from a small colony, so it seems plausible to conclude that he had a "righteous" upbringing, with the church acting as one of the few support systems in his community. Okay, then…read and enjoy! =o)

Zero's POV 

We are together in this place, and yet so completely alone.

Our breathing makes a quiet symphony of indistinct whispers, and this subdued duet lasts indefinitely, until you rupture it with speech.

"What do you want, Zero?" you ask.

What?

"In life, Zero. What do you want in life?" you clarify, picking up on my puzzlement before I've even said a word.

I…don't know.

What _is_ it that I want?

I've never really asked myself that before.

I speak, though I'm not really sure what I'll say.

"I want--"

You.

"I want--"

Acceptance.

But most of all,

"I want--"

To be loved.

I trail off into silence, and you nod your head softly, as if to say "I thought so."

We do not speak for what seems to be a millennium, though it might just have been a minute, or a moment.

"I want to be a hero," I say, finally.

You turn your head to look at me in surprise. Then it seems that you recover from your split-second loss of control, and you are once again intense and otherworldly. 

You're analyzing me, aren't you? Judging my words and weighing them for my sincerity. Our eyes lock and hold, and I feel naked as you overpower me with simple might of will from across the room.

I want to look away, but I don't, because I think I see something beautiful…delicate and battered, but so very beautiful…surfacing from beneath your layers of unreasonable wrath and steely nonchalance to plead for my notice.

You're giving away more of yourself than you think, but as soon as I realize this, so too do you, and your barriers are back up, stronger than ever.

You angrily turn your face back around to stare at nothing, instead of me.

A minute of this finds you calmer, and then you startle me, for a hollow chuckle, deep and bitter like fine wine, escapes your throat to fill the space between us.

"There's no such thing as a hero," you say with a small shake of your head, resuming our erratic conversation as if we'd never paused.

"You're wrong," I argue at once, shocked and incensed at your words.

At this I expect a harsh and heated defense, and thus prepare myself for a clashing of words and bodies. 

But you do not do what I expect; you merely lean back against the wall and close your eyes, as if you're giving up.

This disturbs me more than it should, but before I can go and do something stupid, like ask if you're alright, you open those lovely, unnatural orbs and turn that glorious silver head towards me to speak. 

Despondent words escape your rosy lips to permeate the air with the coldness of your thoughts. 

Your exquisite porcelain face is smooth and distant as your insight, blunt and forlorn, is set forth.

"There are two types of people in this galaxy, Zero; the dead and the dying."

Seconds pass with only the soft humming of the ship's ventilation system between us.

"Why can't you understand that?" you ask, voice tired and uncomprehending. 

The question hangs, draped from the ceiling and reaching from the floor, until it's all around me, and I am enveloped in it.

I have no answer. 

This isn't what I want to hear--everything is just so confusing.

That's not _you_ speaking, is it?

Maybe not; but you've been scarred so deeply that it's all you know; you see only sorrow.

My heart hurts for you.

Suddenly an answer is upon me, and I know, very clearly, why it is I can never think that way.

My life has been built upon the overwhelming urge to _live_, and to be happy.

If I gave that up, my body might still eat and breathe and function, but there'd be no "me" left to speak of, no soul left to laugh and cry; love and hate; comfort and be comforted.

"I can't because…if I did…I'd be destroyed," I say haltingly, hesitant to reveal this intimate truth.

Like a drop of dew sliding off a leaf, my explanation floats through the air for several suspenseful seconds before it rams into your awareness and melts into your mind.

Your eyes are shuttered; their liquid depths swirl with disdain…and something else.

"Of course," you say, as if you knew that all along.

Maybe you did.

More quietly now, eyes on your hands (as if to yourself): "Of course."

Your gaze comes back up to study my face; I stare at the floor.

Our lips do not move; our symphony of silence has resumed.

But now I've found I cannot bear it anymore, and so I leave.

*****************************************

The night comes swiftly enough, and I find myself struggling to slumber.

The stars outside twinkle, sparkle, and shine in undisguised merriment, and I don't want to see this, but when I shut my eyes to block them out, Zion's light pierces through my eyelids and prods me back to wakefulness.

This is an interesting turn of events: I used to have trouble falling _back_ asleep, but now I can't seem to even grasp my small bit of rest in the first place.

I am disheartened.

I…want my Mother back. 

I want someone to tell me everything will be okay, and banish the boogieman underneath my bed, like I had when I was young and unused to pain. 

I want someone to tell me that I'm accomplishing something, and say that it's okay to feel different. 

I want…so much more than I thought.

But there is one thing which I can't go on without: you. 

I have found myself growing increasingly dependent on your presence; your competence; your insanely beautiful self.  

Can't you see it, Hiead?

I need you to help me through my days and nights.  

I try to block this out, and fade to Oblivion. 

_Now I lay me down to sleep;_

I wish for tranquility; a brief respite.

_I pray the Lord my soul to keep;_

I pull my pillow over my head in hopes of shutting out the rest of the Universe, but this does not happen.

_And if I die before I wake,_

I briefly consider pushing down, ever so slightly, onto my pillow, and holding it…holding it…until everything just goes away. But I don't.

_I pray the Lord my soul to take._

Eventually, I drift away, and know no more.

My dreams are peaceful and serene, though, until yesterday, they hadn't been like that for a very long time.

I feel strangely soothed, like a phantom of good will has shared my company and kept me warm.

When I wake I feel oddly abandoned and alone.

I wonder why…?

**Author's Note**: Hello there! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, though I'm aware that I regressed back to my earlier format by making it rather brief. Ah, well. =o) Maybe the next chapter will turn out longer, ne? It's always fun to be inside the mind of the morally ambiguous ones (Hiead, here I come!). =o) Okay, this note _does_ have a point. I fully intend to poll you and then positively barrage you with shameless plugs. 

**Explanation/Question**: I've got story-Hiead's past semi-planned out, and I was wondering if I should put it into this fic, or another one (called something nifty and Glass-related, of course--like "Pieces of His Past"). What do you think? (Don't feel obligated to respond--it's just an idle question from one slasher to another.)

**Plugs**: I kept telling myself to do this, and then forgetting. Okay, here's some more of my stories that you might like:

Megami Kouhosei (No pairing): "**Goodbye, Rome**" __ PG-13__ Complete __Because not everybody lives happily ever after. __ http://fanfiction.net/read.php?storyid=736420

Harry Potter (Draco/Harry):  "**But Deliver Us From Evil**" __R__ Complete__ Harry/ Draco SLASH. Harry and Draco come to terms with life, death, and being in love...with each other. This fic is now finished. __ http://fanfiction.net/read.php?storyid=642153 or "**Prophecy of the Mage**" __PG-13__ Incomplete __ SEX. LOVE. LIES. BETRAYL. DEATH. Homophobes may run away screaming now as there's also H/D SLASH. Interested? Then go ahead; spare yourself the puzzled glances of anguished curiosity. You know you want to. =o) Click, read, enjoy (and all that jazz). __ http://fanfiction.net/read.php?storyid=675967

Digimon (Takedai): "**Hope for my Soul**" __ PG-13__ Incomplete __ Whereby truths are found, revelations made, and friendships broken and strengthened. __  http://fanfiction.net/read.php?storyid=764857

Yikes! Too many stories, ne? Oh, screw it, I'm too lazy to take the time to delete my cut-and-paste work. =o) Bye for now!


	5. The Lover You Never Knew You Had

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Megami Kouhosei, nor do I make any money off of it. #Hysterical screams of  "Why?! Why?!" are heard in background# Damn it, now my muse is flipping out…it's the angst muse. Do you know what this means? Yes…#shakes head in sorrow and pity# …more traumatized bishies. Why?! Why?! Oh, the insanity! ;o) =o) 

**Author's Note**: You know, I believe that this fic can be classified as slightly AU. This is because I am a CN viewer, and when I wrote chapter two, I believed Zero's mother was dead, which she most certainly is not (to my dismay =o). Oh, well. At least no one complained, right? Right. =o)

**Thanks to**: Oh. Oh my. Oh my, how wonderful you are! I wish to give my most profound and sincere thanks to the following people for simply being the nice, great, and all-around fabulous people that they are: UE, Argent Inluminai, Kichigai, RcA, pariah_chesiretiger, Motomiya Jun Aka Na Cupid Jun, gundamesca, and Jaden. Your reviews are all delightful, thoughtful, amazingly warmhearted, and greatly appreciated. Thanks! Read and Enjoy. =o)

Hiead's POV 

Birth is often described as a glorious thing, but I disagree.

It is bloody. 

It is painful. 

It is candid (and thus grotesque). 

There is almost nothing more real or true than the desperation of one slippery non-adult screaming red-facedly in frustration and fear and frank, unabashed fury at the _injustice of it all_, as he is snatched most ungraciously from his mother's sanguine womb to face intolerable, unsympathetic life.

Perhaps we are most fearful in that instance, that solitary second, before we make our grand entrance into the unfathomable Something Else; it is in that time, you see, when we, though ignorant of all evil, are first made aware of some future alteration to our way of existence--a peril to our livelihood.

That is what this feels like, this thing we share.

When I look at you, so warm and unrefined--so very innocent--it's like something inside me changes; I don't understand what it is about you that makes me feel so oddly…protective; yearning; …caring.

All these things are new to me, and alarming.

Terrifying. 

Like nothing I could ever have imagined.

I'm surrounded by things I don't understand; my heart beats swiftly and I'm drowning, drowning, inside you--your lapis lazuli eyes are pulling me under, to a place I've never been.

Is this what you'd call a rebirth, then? 

It feels like it.                                         

Only much, much worse then I ever thought before.

I feel vaguely disgusted with myself for what I've been doing all these long nights; ever since that first time, when I held you close to me to feel your warmth seep into my flesh; when I first savored the sweet and indescribable taste of your mouth under mine…ever since then, I have found myself caught up in a new rite for sleep; I slip in beside you, take you in my arms and steal a kiss--you'll never know--and then I rest; later I take my leave before the next day's toil, without you ever knowing what we've done.

Even though I always despise myself for my weakness later, I find that I simply can't stop myself from leaving the bathroom door open somewhat while I brush my teeth, just so I can watch you as you as you dress, fluid and painfully stunning as you slip smooth leather over golden skin with a hasty, hidden grace most will never know you have.

Sometimes you even touch your lovely lips with two soft fingers in silent wonder, perhaps feeling a lingering trace of the lover you never knew you had.

"I'm here, I'm here!" I want to shout, but I don't.

I can't.

You have no idea how much I restrain myself around you, as you tempt me in so many ways, without even knowing it; at night, in your bed, while you sleep in my arms, I wonder why I don't just snap your neck, but then your hair will tickle my chin, or your lips will brush my neck, and I realize that I'd sooner die myself.

This makes me feel cold…petrified, like when I was as a child.

I try to stop my shivering and slow my racing pulse as I slip away to a boiling shower, where the water pummels my back and the steam comforts my frozen limbs, stiff with disbelief.

But in the night I make you pay for my small breakdowns, and when you wake you cannot figure out why your lips are swollen, or where you got those bruises on your arms.

You'll never know the reason, though.

I'll never tell.

******************************************

Today the morning is as I am: swift and intense.

We receive our morning lessons, and before we've even noticed, afternoon has crept up and Pro-Ing practice is over; we've got thirty minutes worth of free time before lunch.

We head to our rooms to shower and change before mealtime; each candidate bathroom comes equipped with three separate showers, so we each claim one; I can hear the friendly banter between you and 89, and I feel a fierce surge of possessiveness overtake me. 

I want to bash his head in like an overripe piece of fruit and shove you into the wall to do things to make you blush and squirm and scream--teach you that you're mine, and mine alone.

But, of course, I don't.

Clay leaves soon enough, undoubtedly headed towards the library to do something _productive_, for once, though his ability to do something not completely useless or cowardly is rather dubious.

We are left alone; the water melts away the filth of my mind and body and plummets down the drain to meet a timely death (that is, until a time when it is too is cleansed; then it will come back again). 

I'm not sure if it's the same for you. 

Maybe it's only the spiritually impure who feel this way. 

…Or only me.

I hastily cut my shower short to push away these thoughts of mine, and then I am in our room, vigorously toweling myself dry.

You enter seconds after I do, thin white regulation towel draped low over your hips; I push back a guttural growl as I watch small crystal water droplets slither and slide all over you, where my lips want to be.

I notice one again just how different we are when you dry yourself off; there are no harsh, quick movements like mine; instead there is only a slow and steady caress; the rough material of the towel softly soaks up all the glistening water trails on your chest and legs and face, revealing more clearly the subdued glow of your skin, once again clean and dry.

I don't even know what I'm doing until you do--when we're both on your bed and my mouth is hot and wet against your own.

My hands have a mind of their own as one buries itself in your hair and the other greedily runs down your side.

I straddle you and pull you closer, always closer, to myself.

You are limp and dumbfounded, and your eyes are opened wide as you stare at me.

Then you regain your wits, and the struggle begins.

You arch against me and try to turn away, but I won't let you escape, and only pull more fiercely, bringing one arm around your back while the other still cradles your auburn head.

I can feel your trembles as I ravage your mouth, skin on skin, heart to heart.

Finally, when Armageddon comes and goes and our Universe dies and revives itself, I release you, dizzy with lack of air and dazed delight.

I get up (as if nothing has happened) and move towards my side of the room to continue changing; I hear you gasp and wheeze and choke as you regain much-needed air; then you shoot up from where you lay on your back to demand an explanation, which I haven't the slightest intention of giving you. 

"What the Hell was that?" you demand, flushed and flustered as you stand vengefully at the foot of your bed, so close to me and yet…not.

"Why did you do that? You--you--kissed me! How dare you do that?! I didn't say you could do th--damn it, turn around and _answer me_! You can't just kiss me and walk away!" you continue, thoroughly incised and confused.

I whip around and retrace my steps until we're only inches apart.

No one has the right to demand anything from me--no one can tell me what I can and cannot do! I don't need to justify myself to anyone!

Not even you.

_Especially_ not you.

I lock my gaze with yours and I see you're fighting not to back away--uncomfortable, more likely than not, with my further invasion of your space.

I move closer and look down from my superior height. 

"Yes I can," I say smoothly, tone soft and dangerous like the hissing of a snake before it kisses you with poisoned saliva.

My breath briefly brushes across your face, an insubstantial touch, and you tense slightly, whether in anticipation or dread I do not know.

I do not _care_ to know.

"I just did," I say slyly, a slow smirk easing into my face.

This upsets you (I knew it would) and you do something brash, which I should have anticipated but didn't.

You tackle me.

Onto your bed.

We fall unclothed into a cocoon of sheets, which tangles us together even more.

It is then that the door slides open.

"Hey, Zero, I just came back to get my digital notebo--oh my God!" says Clay.

Damn him.

The plastic half-walls that separate each bed hides half of us from view, but he can see our bare legs wrapped around one another in one disorderly heap; I hastily pull a sheet over our grinding hips to keep some semblance of modesty.

"Zero…what are you doing?!" he asks.

I would have thought he'd have drawn his own conclusions by now.

You sit up, embarrassed, and begin to stammer, "I-it's not what it looks like! Really!"

I want to slap you--punch you--for your stupidity, but I find that all I can do is lie back and shut my eyes in mortification.

We're nude and in bed together, both with evidence of our recent kiss emblazoned boldly into our countenances to condemn us to anyone with eyes; do you really think he'll believe you?

You're such an idiot.

"Don't try to fool me Zero," says Clay, and I fight the urge to jump up and attack him only by the thinnest of margins.

"I see what's going on here. I'm not stupid," he continues.

He could have fooled me.

"Why didn't you tell me you had a girlfriend? The guys and I would understand--you didn't have to keep it a secret," he says, his sympathy absolutely dripping on the floor to drown us all with sugar-coated optimism.

I can't believe we're this lucky--he's so unobservant that he doesn't even realize that it's _me_ underneath you, not some secret lover or someone equally as pathetic. 

I silently thank the company who makes these sheets--and those legs you've got straddling me now--for hiding the obvious evidence of my masculinity from view.

You stare at him in unconcealed amazement; shocked, most likely, at his logical, though incorrect, conclusion.

You look like you want to refute his statements, tell him the truth, but I pinch you hard enough to dissuade you from taking that route.

"Uh…of-of course, Clay," you say, voice weak and thin as if you're forcing the words through your throat, which is most likely the case. 

"I'll…keep that in mind…" you say, a fierce blush of embarrassment apparent as you talk.

"Good. I'll leave you two lovebirds alone now," he says, good-natured teasing and amusement evident in his tone.

He slips out the door not a moment too soon, just as I am about to jump up and pummel the life out of him.

You breathe a sigh of relief, quickly dispelled as I push you off of me and onto the floor.

I walk back towards my side of the room and pretend that everything is as it was this morning, which it most certainly is not.

While I change I can feel your eyes boring a hole into my back, questioning; searching for answers that I don't have, and don't want.

You're still watching while I walk away.

You don't follow.

*********************************************

I find myself curious to know what 89 will say to the others about your "steamy affair," and so I sit closer than usual to the eighties candidates' (excluding myself) usual table. 

The conversation flies nonstop from topic to topic, and I am forced to endure listening to a fair bit of mindless chattering, to my dismay.

Finally Clay decides to tell the others about what he'd seen earlier, exaggerating wildly and talking animatedly until the other two boys are completely enthralled in the interesting, but mostly untrue, story of Clay walking in on Zero's passionate lovemaking to a beautiful maiden with milky-white skin, long lustrous golden locks, and liquid doe eyes the finest shade of aqua (whatever that's supposed to mean).

I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

"Who was she?" asks Roose, excited.

"Er…well, I'm not really sure exactly…" Clay admits sheepishly.

He thinks, for a moment, and then startles me.

"She had nice legs, though."

I quietly choke on my meal.


	6. Such Sweet Suicide

Disclaimer: Megami Kouhosei isn't mine (yadda, yadda, yadda), I don't make any money off of it (blah, blah, blah), don't sue (please).

Thanks to: #falls over and dies when she sees all the wonderful, mind-blowing, fantastic reviews; revives herself so she can choke out a proper thank you to the spectacular people who took the time and effort to do a nice deed (curses herself for leaving you all in suspense)# My deepest and most sincere thanks and gratitude go out to the following for their kind words: Chevira Lowe, UE, Argent Inluminai, poetisa, Shime, RcA, pariah_chesiretiger, Kichigai, Anonymous, lillykawaii, veggies lil sis k-chan, gundamesca, Silfee, Hemii aka Heie, Dark Fire, Karyx, panchan14, and Anonymous 2. You're the best! #huggles you all#

Author's Note: I've finally decided what's going to happen in this fic. Sort of. It will conclude after a few more chapters. There might be a sequel, though, if you guys want one. ^_^

Zero's POV

I wish I knew more about everything, so I could sort out how you feel—how _I_ feel—and classify just the way you taste.

But I don't know how to do any of those things; all I can do is simply _feel_—like an animal.

Frightened and unthinking and misplaced—and is that how you think of me?

I don't know—I don't know anything, now! 

You've changed _everything_. Do you understand? _Everything_.

We can't go back to the way things were in the past—today you changed time, too.

And now, I don't know anything at all.

I have to learn the taste of apple cider and sex, and see if they compare.

Can your touch be found in baby blankets and hail?

If I ever smelled the scent of fresh-cut grass and fire, and would they make me dizzy too?

And do you sound like a swinging sword, all smooth strokes and blood?

I have to find my God, and look upon him, and will he be as lovely as the lights shining on your hair?  

And yes, when you're around, I have to learn to breathe, because you make me forget, sometimes.

How did you destroy my mind so completely? 

Did you know you could do this to me?

My stomach is churning—my body's soaked with sweat—and I'm melting into the floor, burning up with questions that need answers that I might not want to face.

But I have to, and I will, and I wonder where you are, for we must speak.

*********************************************************

It is time to face my own little Hell.

I see you in the corridor; we're all alone—it's time to find out what our fate may be.

I stop you with one quiet hand on your shoulder, and when you turn around you don't pull away; it's me who does that.

You stand there, waiting—evaluating—while I struggle for words.

"What did it mean?" I finally ask, not one for subtlety, but you don't say a word.

You can't do this—you can't just kiss me and not tell me what it means; what you feel! And that's what you want to do—isn't it?—but I won't let you.

"What did it _mean_, Hiead?!" I repeat, angrier now.

I only hope I don't have hysterics in the hall—I haven't the control to stop myself. That was lost long ago.

"It didn't mean anything," you say coolly, detached and distant (like I hoped you wouldn't be) from this place; this situation; me.

"It had to have meant something," I protest, voice defensive and broken all at once (and this is frightening, because it's never happened to me before).

"Did it? Did it really?" you hiss in feigned curiosity, and I am injured and incised at the sneer I hear in your liquid velvet tones.

"Yes!" I exclaim, too tired and distraught to sort through the lies and pretend that this is normal.

Seconds of silence creep sluggishly by.

"_Yes_," I repeat more calmly, the finality of the word almost crushing me on impact.

The full meaning of my statement has struck me; I realize what I've said—what I've done with a single word. I have accepted you—the concept of "us"—and everything is so clear, now.

We need not hide behind denial anymore.

I have just changed our future permanently, and this is such sweet suicide, this thing between you and I.

"Damn you!" you spit, the rage seeping out between the cracks of your imperfect armor, and you push me against the metal wall (as if I were a rag doll) and lean in closer, until the only things that separate our bodies are two inches of air and your fists where they clutch at my uniform.

"It was lust, alright? Fucking _desire_," (you snarl on the word) "and that was all. Are you satisfied yet?! Are you _happy_, now that you have your answer?! I wanted you, Goddamn it! I wanted to be _inside_ of you. Do you understand, finally? Well, do you?!"

I stare at you in mute wonder, but you don't let me answer; you think you know what I want, and you think it isn't you.

"Now leave me the fuck alone, before I bash your brains in against the floor," you whisper dangerously, perhaps too spent to do anything more.

With that, you push me harder into the wall with your clenched hands, still wrapped around my clothing, and I can feel the back of your fingers and the ghost of your lips before you let me go and turn away.

"Hiead," I say, before you leave me—leave this barely-born thing we seem to share—forever (and isn't it ironic? Now I'm the calm one, because I understand what's going on, and I know just what I should do).

You whip around, but before you even open your mouth, I'm speaking again.

"Come with me," I demand, walking towards an empty storage closet in the hall.

You glare at me, demanding and impatient.

"And why the _Hell_ would I want to do that, Enna?" you bite out, more suspicious now than ever.

I stand in the doorway, one foot planted firmly on the safety of the white corridor, the other on the tiled uncertainty of the darkened room, and smile at you in a way I hope is coy.

"Because here, we won't be under surveillance," I say, hiding my sudden blush by slipping determinedly into the shadows.

Perhaps you are surprised; maybe you are curious. I do not know—I can only guess.

A lifetime of "what ifs" is incontrovertibly demolished when you take that first step; you follow me to a future we never even saw coming.

Will you be gentle with me?

No.

Will you call me sweetheart?

Never.

Will you hold my hand and say you love me?

I'll never see that day in this lifetime, nor the next.

And can I handle that?

I'll have to. I hope so. I'll try.

I welcome you with open arms as our lips meet and you take me roughly against the floor.

You make me bleed, but I make you do that too, and when we're through we wipe away the tears and blood and sweat and cum together. They mix and blend into a painful abstract, too personal to decipher, and neither of us know if we've created beauty or a mess, and we can't tell what's going to happen next.

You don't say goodbye when you leave…but I can live with that.

I sleep soundly that night.

Author's Note: …Um…yeah, I know this chapter was really rather weird and dull, but I'd already made you guys wait long enough for chapter six, and I thought this was better than nothing. Future chapters might be even shorter, as I'll be updating much more swiftly than I have been.

Another Author's Note: Want to be entertained? Then go to http://rpg.dualpotential.net/journal/index.html. Trust me, you'll love it. It's an AU MK journal RP site, and I really love it (and that's not just because I'm one of the RPers, mind you).  Some of you might actually be fellow members of it, some of you might have heard of it, and, then again, some of you might not have known about it, or not even know what a Role-Playing Game is. But, trust me, it's really awesome. Go check it out! If you don't want to take my word for it, then here's some background info: it was created by the infamous MK fanworld goddess Kay Willow. I kid you not. So you _know_ it must be awesome. Bye for now! 


	7. All Good Things Die

Disclaimer: I don't own Megami Kouhosei, nor do I make any money off of it. #weeps# But, oh, the things I could do if I did…#dreamy-eyed#

Author's Note: #incoherent sounds of surprise and delight inserted here# Wow! I'd like to thank the following people for doing a good deed and feeding my ego (society cringes, but that pleases me ^_~) with their thoughtful, wonderful, fantastic reviews: gundamesca, poetisa, UE, Karyx, AA-Chan, Lanae, Lei, cloa, Feathered Wings, 'Manda,  Aishiteru Tenshi, and kio. Thanks! #group huggle# Um, for those of you who want to know, there should be about two more chapters or so after this one. That's an estimate, mind you—it's liable to change if my muse suddenly inspires me to alter the planned ending. Read and enjoy, everyone!

Sometimes, at night, I kiss you while you sleep, and you don't know what I've done, and things are momentarily back the way they were before.

It seems like we have been this way a long time—maybe forever—but then I recall a million things I'd rather not, and I remember how imperfect this bond between us really is.

What are we doing to ourselves?

What is it that we want—what is it that we have?

What kind of hold do you have on me?

You don't like things the way there are—I can tell.

You thought you could accept me the way that I am; keep things the way that they are.

But you can't, can you? It's not enough.

I bet you (somehow, secretly) wished that things would change; I bet you prayed that _I_ would change. I bet you still do.

You never close your eyes when we touch; when we kiss; when we fuck.

Why is that?

Once, you said I was beautiful.

We bruised each other that night, in the storage closet, and the bite marks wouldn't fade for days.

Now I keep my eyes open too.

What are we looking for?

I can see that you wish that I were different—more like you. But I'm not.

You want me to show you more than just the cold—past the rage. But I can't.

That is the one thing I can't do. But I wish I could, and I wish I didn't want that.

I just can't risk it; not now—not yet. 

Maybe never (maybe not).

Still, that is what you want. 

I can see it every time I look in your eyes; in your sweet, screaming face; every time our gazes lock.

And so I still kiss you while you sleep—when your eyes are closed.

And I wonder if you know the things I think—the things I feel—and I work the wonder out of me by pounding into you, as we grope and grasp and gasp in our own unsure Utopia.

And no matter how many times I take you, you still cling and blush, like a virgin. 

Like an angel.

But I will not call you an angel, because angels aren't real.

And if they were, you're much too pure to be one.

Or have I sullied that?

No. _No_.

How do you make me think these things…?

I'm not sure…maybe I knew, once, but you made me forget. 

Because I do forget sometimes, you know. You make me forget so many things… Did you realize that?

Sometimes I forget to be cruel; forget to fight; forget not to kiss you tenderly.

Can you feel it in the way I touch you; the way I take you; the way I trail kisses down your shoulders and forearms?

Maybe you do. I can feel you shiver and shudder and sigh breathlessly down my back, and your hands, your fine, lovely, lover's hands, they clutch me desperately, like you sense you're breaking me down (making me more human), and you want to hold onto that for as long as you can.

But you can't hold onto the fantasy, because that isn't real either.

And your hands, your perfect little hands with their fine-boned fingers and too-soft skin (almost dainty—but that's preposterous. Isn't it?), they slide down sweat-slicked skin until we forget those brief moments of gentleness; forget not to scream; forget that this is insanity. Do you forget who you're kissing, too? 

I don't. 

I can never forget you. (Not even when I want to.)

I tear into your body; you tear at mine. And if I loved you, this would hurt, but I don't love you and it still hurts, so what does that mean?

I've made you get on your knees, but I was on my knees too, so are we equals?

Does sex mean we're lovers, or is it the fact that I hold you when we're done that makes us that?

I'd crush your windpipe if I could (make this stop), but I can't make myself do it, even if my fingers would leave the most perfect purple necklace on your throat. 

You do bruise so prettily, Zero.

But I wouldn't be able to stand the screaming, yours and mine, that'd come from terror instead of need. (Or maybe I could. But I don't want to. I feel terror at the need, but perhaps I need the terror, and is that fucked up or isn't it? I cannot tell. But I don't care (I don't think), so don't mind me.)

You cry so wonderfully for me, Zero. 

Can I keep you? Will you be mine? (Or are you mine already?)

You arch so wantonly, Zero.

And isn't this enough? 

Can't you pretend I told you I loved you? 

Will you wait for something that might never come?

You moan my name so marvelously into my mouth, Zero.

And why is it whatever you say turns to gold? 

I like the way my name tastes on the tip of your tongue. 

What are we doing, Zero?

Let's never stop.

Stay this way, stay with me.

But don't all good things die?


End file.
